


Coming Full Circle

by McGuck



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, M/M, NSFW, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McGuck/pseuds/McGuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Fiddleford's beginning to remember things that happened his past, it's beginning to bring up old feelings. One-sided Fiddlestan. Angst. Mostly internalized thoughts. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Full Circle

I am remembering again. Things that I do not want to remember. The room is dark – I haven't been getting any sleep lately; I'm too afraid that something – or someone will enter my dreams, too afraid that I'll see things again.

A sob hitches its way out of my throat, the way it had 30 years ago. The way it had when I first realized that my world was falling apart; before I destroyed a brilliant mind. I didn't need these feelings back, remembering was complicated enough, but the feelings-

He leans a large, muscled arm on my shoulder, poking his finger into my back. The smell of alcohol lingers on his breath, but he's not quite drunk yet. It's late. Maybe 3am. Maybe later. “How late you plannin' on staying up, Doc? You makin' this a 48-hour thing? You're about to pass out, let's get you to bed-”

Doc. That's what he called me. My body shivers, and I'm suddenly freezing despite the warm summer air filtering into my shack. I want more than anything for that word to pass his lips again; I want to be “Doc” to him again. What if I go there – right now? What if I tell him I'm remembering, that I'm getting better, that I'm not going to be stuck in this dump forever; old and alone and crazy?

But what if I am?

“No, no, I ain't! Git!” I say these words out loud, and my own voice sounds foreign to me. The man in the video didn't talk like that. The man in the video was calm, intelligent, stable. He wasn't a hillbilly, he wasn't dirty, he wasn't useless. Not like me. We're nothing alike.

But that is me. I'm Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. It's me; just how much of that can I get back? 

I looked down at my ragged overalls; my shoeless, bandaged feet; and I hate myself more intensely then than I have in the last 30 years. Hated my clothes, hated that when I tried to shave my hands shook so badly that I would cut myself. I hated the way I behaved, so goddamn desperate all of these years for an ounce of sympathy that I would do anything for attention, be it positive or negative. I wished I could just erase myself, that I could just disappear. No one would notice.

I'm crying, now. How pathetic I must look. I forget, sometimes, that no one wants to be around me anymore. That no one wants to deal with me. My own son probably hates me. I deserve it. Does anyone remember who I used to be? Does anyone care?

Does he care? My face reddens slightly. Why should it matter to me? I don't even remember who he is – but it does matter, doesn't it? Because the longer I think of him, the faster my heart beats, the more my head reels. Old feelings, rising to the surface again after 30 years of being dormant.

My hands shake slightly, and I run a hand across my head, still surprised when my fingertips meet a fluffy tuft of gray hair.

I was in love with him.

I feel a little bit sick all of a sudden. 

Oh God, I loved him.

I feel suddenly as if I am about to vomit; a wave of dizziness overtakes me, and I have a memory.

It's winter. The wind is howling outside. My wife and I are under the covers, but I am consumed by an aching loneliness that I cannot explain. We are making love; the rhythm is slow and steady. My heart is aching terribly, as it has so often in the past few months. I am making love to her, but I am not thinking of her – I'm thinking of him. I cannot go a day without thinking of him. The guilt is terrible; as I make love to my wife, I think of what it would like to have his entire length inside of me. I want it – I want it more than anything. I do not realize yet that I am falling in love with him, but that will come in time.

I snap out of it. My feelings for him are coming back, oh God. I sniffle a little bit, watching my raccoon as she runs around the garbage in my shack. “He don't care about you, McGucket, just forgit about it!” I wave a hand in the air as if to get rid of these feelings, but they linger nonetheless. The aching in my heart returns and I curl my fingers over my chest as if to get rid of it. I'm too old, too far gone; for him to ever care about me again.

He leaves me food sometimes. Scraps, in the garbage. He doesn't want me to know it's for me, but I know. He rolls his eyes at me and tells me to beat it, but he never yells at me. And he never laughs. He thinks I'm too far gone to notice that, but I always notice. My son never laughs at me because he's ashamed, but Stan - 

I can feel my face redden again, and I have to shake myself a little to get out of it. What am I doing here, heart pounding like a lovestruck school child? I'm seventy-five years old, and here I am blushing over a man that probably didn't care a lick about me. 

But I'm getting better. Ever since my memories were returned to me, I can feel myself recovering. It's scary, terrifying actually. I haven't felt this cognizant in ages. I haven't pulled out my hair since then.  
I can feel it growing in, it itches a little. I can't remember the last time I had hair.

I'm getting better. What does that mean? I want to tell him, I want to tell him so badly that maybe, just maybe, my mind is coming back to me – but I have to keep this guise up, because if I don't pretend I'm just a crazy old man, than something will come after me. Something terrible. The something that gave me horrifying nightmares 30 years ago; the something that drove me to my downfall. 

I shudder noticeably. I want to be in his arms. I want him to hold me, the way he used to hold...what was her name again? A twinge of jealousy passes over me, but I push it aside. I never stood a chance anyway, and now I especially don't stand a chance. Just look at me. 

I fell asleep at my work desk again last night, trying to figure out whatever it is that's happening to this town. I've been doing that increasingly more often over the past couple of weeks – if anyone sees me studying, I'm at risk for being discovered. I don't like to do my experiments in public anymore, it's just not safe.

I'm leaving. I've already decided. Whatever's happening, I might be in danger. I want Stan to come with me; bring those kids, too – I liked the kids, they were kind to me. If it hadn't been for them, I would still be basking in ignorance. But it was too late now, too late for any of that. 

By tomorrow, I'll be gone. And I might never see Stan again, and it'll hurt – maybe it'll hurt as badly as it hurt to realize how far I'd really fallen. But if I'm going to recover, truly recover, this isn't the place to do it. Maybe I'll come back to Gravity Falls one day – it's my home, and I can't imagine living anywhere else. But for now, big things are coming. I can't be here when they happen.


End file.
